RUM DIARIES PRESENTS
Writers Block Radio Hour
Supersoundscotland.net
March 2020
THE PAUSE
Three weeks ago my mum asked for a proper hug before I caught the train home to Scotland; we hugged in the kitchen and then, at the station, there was a rare parking space, so we hugged again; she felt so thin; her optimism for once may have held a tug of uncertainty.
On the train a loud family talked about how they needed to get to the Isle of Man before travel was stopped, their luggage overflowing into the aisle; taking up spare seats.
And today; now that we have had the children out of school for a couple of days; we walked round Ardmore. I kept on trying to record the sea, the sound of the oyster catchers and curlews, the seaweed popping in the heat. I walked up to the old man made something, maybe once it was a harbour or maybe some weird fish trap: high blocks of stone, old wooden stakes. The mussel shells crunch under my feet. Dash the dog sniffs everywhere, tugs on his lead.
You, my love, get the children writing in chalk on stones, get them to sing songs of the seashore, to stamp on the seaweed and carry lumps of wood to make their fort out of washed up polystyrene and twigs, decorated with shells and stones and flowers.
We all agree it is a fine and lovely fort. I take photos, James, as is his way, puts his face close to the camera so the shot is spoiled but I get other ones I like.
We find frogspawn besides the path; think of hatching the tadpoles at home
At the point, looking out to the wrecked sugar boat we come across that massive, massive, washed up stack of wood and nails, some old pier come loose perhaps.
The gorse is yellow and smelling of coconut, you and the children clamber onto the wooden pier, James getting stuck half way up. You all walk up and down, shouting out at the numbers incised into the old wood, playing make up games, pretending to fall off. Out to sea, the waves own melody make this perfect, the gulls and the crows and the oystercatchers and the deep, deep, warm blue of the early spring make this especially beautiful; a treasured memory.
When we reach the bog Charlotte nearly loses her boot in the mud, James cries at the scratch of the gorse we go through to escape the wet.
And now back at home after the best, most perfect day of the year, the children say they miss their friends and we explain we are only allowed out once a day, that we are not allowed to visit other people. I get ready to phone my mum, alone in her big house so soon after her husband; my Dad died. You speak to your Mum; try to convince her not to keep going out to the shops.
We sit later; confused. We do not know what to make of this.
(Photo: Ardmore Point 08 2020)
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